


The Prize for Winning

by Louffox



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (which I doooo), M/M, Power Couple, Sailing, Storm - Freeform, Tempest - Freeform, bardic power, god won't let them die?, hes gonna FIGHT the SKY, more like OSCAR, no beta we die like men, powerful bard Wilde, they're married, this is all panda and el's fault, this isn't actually all that shippy or romantic unless you count fighting the sky as romantic, what a wilde ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23462779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: They're caught in a storm and they're going to die.No. No they won't. Oscar won't let them
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 5
Kudos: 78





	The Prize for Winning

**Author's Note:**

> heyoo this was written in 25 minutes with the aid of oops-too-strong cold brew, a stunning art piece from panda, and a glorious kraken fight from el. Yall are spectacular.

They were going to die.

_ No. _

There was no way out, no one coming to save them, no contingencies left, no more aces up sleeves.

They were going to  **die.**

_ No. _

They couldn't do this. They weren't strong enough. They had underestimated their enemy, the fury of the very world around them. They had overestimated themselves, puny and mortal beneath the might of nature herself.

They were  _ going to  _ **_die_ ** _. _

**No** .

No, they would not.

He wouldn't- he couldn't- they all- 

_ I won't die _ .

_ He won’t die. _

_ Nobody will die here today. _

He opened his mouth and threw his voice into the sky.

He would outscream the storm. A tempest? Wilde would show the world a tempest.

The rainwater was pouring into his eyes and mouth, but he was giving back as good as he got, drawing the song out from deep within himself, that solid core of power that had once been but a spark, nurtured and grown, carefully cultivated, as he scraped for scraps to feed it and make it stronger, brighter, hotter, bigger. He had become everything that poor and plotting irish child had aspired, and more. He was ready for this fight.

Years and tears and blood and breath, he’d given it all to build himself to be this, and now he wasn’t about to give it up to a load of rain and gale winds. Nature couldn’t touch him, or his companions. He wouldn’t let her. Not so long as his heart beat, as their was breath in his lungs.

He tipped his head back, letting the rain pummel his face. Lengthening and opening his windpipe, playing his body, his instrument, as he’d trained and perfected. Shoulders pressed down and away from his ears, sternum forward, his diaphragm pressing up as his core pressed down. He played himself, less a machine of music and more a weapon-being.

The rain wasn’t pouring into his mouth any longer. It was thrown back in a concussive wave as the magic seized it and tossed it away, a backhand of power. The spell had seized Oscar as well, coursing through him, demanding strength and energy. He fed it. He gave it everything, first giving it what it necessitated and then forcing even more.

The wind stopped coming at him, and slammed outward as well.

Oscar squinted up at the sky with derision, still playing himself, barely even hearing his own melodious cacophony.  _ Is that the best you’ve got? Give me everything. I can take it. I can win _ .

A crackle, friction in the black clouds gone stone solid, and she threw a bolt of lightning at him.

He hit a new note- three new notes, all at once, singing all the harmonies as he had practiced- and threw it back.

Zolf’s hands were on his shoulders, but it wasn’t needed. The ocean around them was flat as glass, the deck solid and steady under their feet. Because that was what he willed. He wanted the world steady. And his will was reality-

-so long as he kept singing.

Zolf was dragging him backwards, saying something, but Oscar was beyond hearing anything but the battle, the sonic parry between his air and the air of the storm.

**_I_ ** _ am the tempest. _

He grabbed those clouds with his voice, wrapping his grip around the maelstrom, and forced it open.

It rent under his imposed will, and though his song cracked and splintered with the strain, it held. He cracked. But he did not break.

Instead, the world around him broke.

There was light. Blinding and cutting, sharp as the razors he felt in his throat as he tore himself open, and the sky open, and found the sun.

And then there was dark.

  
  


“-honey, maybe some lemon. I don’t know, I’ve never seen him like this. No idea what to do. I mean, he’s just unconscious, I think. I didn’t even have to stabilize him, he wasn’t dying or anything. Just… overexerted himself.”

Zolf. He was speaking to someone. Oscar blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the dried salt from his lashes. Seawater? Tears? Probably both.

His breath was agony, and he tried not to swallow, knowing that would be even worse. His core felt like he had pulled every muscle in his abdomen. Even his collarbones ached.

Zolf wasn’t immediately visible- he was in the nicest cabin on the small craft, which was to say, he was on a pile of blankets and what could technically be considered a mattress, if you squinted.

There was a glass of water on the table beside him, rocking gently. He had learned enough about seafaring that he could feel they were tied to something. In port?

“Yeah. Here, this should cover whatever you need. No point being frugal, apparently the meritocracy paid damn well. Hurry back, I dunno when he’s gonna wake.”

There was the sound of boots on planks, and then the door opened more than just the crack. Oscar had to squint- the sun coming in was dazzling.

“You’re alive, then?” Zolf said casually. Wilde opted to not bring up the clear concern he’d heard a moment ago, letting Zolf play it off as his usual blunt and cavallier method of showing care.

Not that he could bring it up. He touched his neck lightly, almost expecting to feel shards of glass or knives, from how shredded it felt.

He was reduced to nodding and grimacing, not even bothering to try and speak. He hadn’t done anything like this in a while, but had done it enough that he knew what he could do and couldn’t do for a while. And talking was completely out of the question for… probably days.

Zolf dug around in his bag of holding and procured a length of graphite and a scrap of paper. Wilde accepted it gratefully, and wrote quickly.

_ I’ll live. Won’t be able to talk for a while. Don’t try and heal yet- I’ve already had too much magic run through me and I need to just rest a while. Where are we? _

“A port off the coast of India. A little ways south of Mumbai. What in hell was that?”

_ You said get ready to swim. I don’t like swimming _ .

“Funny. I didn’t know you could fight a storm like that. First time I’ve seen someone do that. Works pretty well, better than rowing into it.

_ It’s not a trick I can do to often. _

“Clearly. You’ve gone and wrecked yourself.”

_ I won _ .

Zolf grinned at him. It was a better prize than the sunlight. He hadn’t fought the storm for his life, or to avoid swimming. He didn’t give a damn about any of that.

He had sang for that smile.

With that to fight for, he would always win.


End file.
